


A Greater Power

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	A Greater Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Three-sentence ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018074) by [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M). 



"Please," Javert says, his voice hoarse and tight; his hand trembles on Valjean's shoulder, as if he wants to seize him, to tighten his grip to bruising — but it stays open and lax, only the shudder of his fingers betraying him. Valjean lifts his head from Javert's hip and looks up, across the long, lean stretch of Javert's bare chest, rising and falling rapidly as Javert breathes, quick and shallow, his eyes squeezed tightly closed and his long, iron-gray hair spread in a tangled, tousled mess across the pillows. There is no sign of the hunter in that face, no trace of the watchdog; there is no fanatic: there is only a man — and if he is not quite just like any other, that is in Valjean's eyes alone; and it is out of being able to see each other with whole eyes that they have come to this at last.

"Look at me," Valjean says, though he dips his head as he says it to kiss Javert's hip again, the sharp crease of muscle there, tasting the sharp salt of sweat. When he raises his head again Javert has opened his eyes and is staring down at him, something strange and wild in his gaze, unfettered by control, unburdened by the past. Javert's hand comes up slightly, still shaking, tracing up Valjean's neck and along his jaw until his fingertips rest lightly across Valjean's lips. Valjean kisses them gently, sees Javert's eyes darken even further, feels the shudder spread through his body, Javert's hips arching up beneath him, his cock rubbing against Valjean's shoulder, smearing a wet line across his skin; he opens his mouth and lets Javert press his fingers inside.

They're heavy in his mouth, long and thick, and he feels briefly awkward, almost ridiculous, as he sucks at them, licking along the undersides; but Javert chokes out a moan, says "God, Jean—" and pulls them out an inch before pushing them back in slowly, deeper, fingers curling over Valjean's tongue, until his thumb is stroking over Valjean's cheek. 

Valjean leans into the touch, tightening his lips around Javert's fingers for a moment, then lets them free and draws away, pushing himself up until he's kneeling over Javert, looking down: the shine of spit across his fingers, held uncertainly halfway between them, the slick wetness welling at the head of his prick, the bitten-red of his mouth. It does not feel like a sin to be here with him, like this, to touch and be touched, to find Javert capable of asking and himself capable of giving without thought or bitterness; and, if it is mercy, there is something more to it as well.

"Please," Javert says again, and Valjean reaches down — Javert's breath hitches — and takes Javert's hand in his own, watching the rising flicker of desperation in his eyes. He brings it to his lips again, kisses his fingertips again, then his knuckles. Here, where his action has no more consequence than one touch or another, where each decision and each request will have the same effect and bring them to the same conclusion, it feels possible to do this, to ask things of Javert in return; to lower their clasped hands between his own legs and set Javert's hand on his cock.

Javert moans, a thick choked noise; his cock twitches untouched against his belly, his hips tremble beneath Valjean's thighs, need burning bright in his eyes, but he curls his fist around Valjean's prick and strokes him, quick and firm, carrying Valjean's hand along with his own. Valjean lets it rest there — he does not need to guide him, though they are each still new to this: to feel Javert doing this for him willingly, eagerly, his large callused hand gentle, it is more than enough, it at once grounds him and sets him free. He lets himself rock forward into Javert's hand, watching the color creep up his face and his breathing speed again; he wonders for a moment at how Javert takes such pleasure in this, that it seems sometimes he would rather touch Valjean than be touched himself.

Javert's thumb sweeps across the head of his prick, smearing the wetness there across and back down to join the slick of his spit; it sends a shudder through Valjean's spine, chasing his thoughts away. He feels his mouth fall open slightly, leaving him panting as he thrusts harder, reaching down with his free hand to brace himself on Javert's hip. He cannot look away from Javert's face; he does not want to. Javert's tongue flicks across his lips, wetting them, he swallows hard. "Kiss me," he says, "please."

Valjean answers with action instead of words, squeezing Javert's hand lightly, then letting go and shifting forwards, bracing his hands at Javert's broad shoulders so he can lean down and kiss him, this strange affection between them demanding it. Under his mouth Javert makes soft, broken, needy sounds, he is falling apart, still untouched, though his hand has never slowed, never stuttered in its rhythm, the only thing he has held on to. "Javert," Valjean says against his lips, and Javert turns his head aside to gasp for air like a drowning man, leaving Valjean to mouth at his jaw, his throat, feeling his heartbeat racing wildly. "Do you want—"

"Just let me," Javert mutters, twisting his wrist in a way that drags a sharp gasp from Valjean's throat, then tilting his head back to kiss Valjean hungrily again. 

He works his hand faster over Valjean's prick, drinking down Valjean's moans, until Valjean feels the building rush of pleasure like a blow, setting his head spinning; he breaks the kiss, says, "I will —" and Javert says _"Please_ ," and lunges up to recapture his mouth. It is enough, it is more than enough, to know that he is wanted like this, so completely— he kisses Javert back, near matching his desperation, and barely manages to keep himself braced above him as he spends in hot pulses over Javert's hand, over his stomach and chest.

Javert strokes him through it until he softens, gentle touches against the sensitive skin that lie at odds with the fire in his eyes, and Valjean finally lets himself slump down at Javert's side, spent and sated. When he glances down, Javert's cock still stands hard against his hip, wet and swollen. He reaches over and runs his fingertip gently down the thick ridge of the underside, and Javert shudders, his hand pulling back finally from Valjean's prick and tightening into a fist by his side — but he is tense now, silent except for his breathing, and Valjean stops. 

"Here," he says, and reaches for Javert's hand. At first he thinks Javert might resist, but at the touch of Valjean's hand the tension ebbs from him; his fist uncurls, and Valjean brings it easily to his lips. A stripe of Valjean's spend is splashed white across the side of Javert's forefinger and down his knuckles; he kisses the salt and bitterness away, drop by drop, then kisses his palm, tasting the skin there and wetting it again.

When he brings their hands to Javert's prick, Javert is slower to close his hand about it; Valjean guides him in it this time, long, even passes from root to tip, slow enough that even though Javert has waited for so long he will not come quite yet, and gradually, his eyes fixed on Valjean's, Javert picks up the rhythm, stroking himself as Valjean directs him. "Jean, I am," he says, and falters, a hint of uncertainty sparking beneath the near-consuming desire on his face. "You—"

Valjean leans up on his elbow and kisses him; unasked for this time, but he thinks at last he knows enough of them both to know that it will not be unwelcome. "Yes," he says. "Please."


End file.
